


Blindsided

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Blind Date, Double Dating, M/M, POV Greg, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 23:17:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12922314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg thought it was a quiet dinner with John, John thought he might get punched, Mycroft feared the worst and Sherlock thought he knew what he was doing. In the end, only one of them was right.





	Blindsided

Greg took a deep breath before walking into the restaurant. It was fairly full, but his eyes fell immediately on the three people waiting for him.

“No fucking way,” he breathed, and as he spoke John turned as though he’d been able to hear Greg over the bustle of the restaurant. Greg caught his eye and made a ‘you and me, outside now’ gesture before turning on his heel and walking out. Waiting the few seconds in the cold night air was good for his temper – had John met him immediately, he might have decked the bastard.

The second John appeared, Greg glared at him. “What the fuck is going on?” he said flatly.

John spread his arms somewhat helplessly. “There was no way you’d have come if I told you the real deal.”

“A double date with you, Sherlock and Mycroft, for fuck’s sake? Not bloody likely!” Greg was aware of his loud voice and far more profanity than he usually used, but he’d had a bad shock right now, so he was bloody well allowed.

John sighed. “Are you going to listen if I try and explain, or do you want to punch me now and get it over with?” The blunt statement brought him up cold, and he stared at John. Tempted though he still was to hit something (or someone), it wouldn’t help him understand what was going on.

“Right then,” grumbled Greg, “get on with it.” he crossed his arms, waiting for John to assemble his thoughts.

“Sherlock and I have been, um, together for a few weeks.” Whatever Greg would have thought John would have started with, this would not have even made the top ten.

“Together.” Greg repeated. “As in…together?”

“Yes.” Affirmed John.

“Okay,” accepted Greg. He hoped things would get less weird now, but something told him John was starting with the easiest part first.

“Mycroft has been annoying.” John told him bluntly. “He keeps reinstalling security cameras, opening our mail again, dropping in unexpectedly. All his less-than-charming actions that apparently show he worries about Sherlock.” Greg had to smirk at this. John had gotten himself tangled up in one of the oddest sibling relationships Greg had ever seen. There may be no escape, he thought. Serves him right.

“So what does this have to do with me?” asked Greg.

“Well,” John said, looking increasingly uncomfortable, “Sherlock confronted Mycroft, told him to back off. It was long winded, but came down to Sherlock bribing Mycroft.”

“I’m a bribe?” Greg said in disbelief.

“No, no,” John said hastily, “Sherlock’s theory is that if Mycroft finds someone of his own he’ll keep his nose out of our business.”

“Again, what does this have to do with me?”

“It was Sherlock’s suggestion,” said John. “I’m not sure if he thinks you and Mycroft will actually hit it off or if he’s joking. No offense.”

“Plenty taken, ta for that,” snapped Greg. He stared at John as he thought about this. On any other day, in almost any other scenario, a date with Mycroft would be pretty great. God knew he’d admired the tall elegant man on enough occasions, but this felt like he was being set up for a fall.

“What does Mycroft think he’s doing here?” Greg asked, the hole in John’s story rising to the fore.

“Right now, I’d assume he’s figured it out. Before two minutes ago, I have no idea what story Sherlock cooked up to get Mycroft here. I seriously doubt it was the truth, though.”

“So Mycroft has been blindsided as much as I have.” Greg said. John just nodded. “I’ll assume Sherlock wanted to either ensure Mycroft stayed, or he wants to see the carnage first hand,” mused Greg.

“I told him if he was going, I was too. A double date makes more sense than him as a third wheel, and I can throw him over my shoulder and carry him home if he gets too obnoxious,” explained John. Greg could see his mate was trying to apologise, kind of. Placate him, more likely.

“So if I go home now, Sherlock’s gonna be in a strop all night, Mycroft will keep hassling you and Sherlock will probably take it out on me.” Greg summarised.

John considered. “Probably,” he replied. “But I won’t stop you if that’s what you want.”

Still staring at John, Greg pointed and said emphatically, “You are going to owe me pints ‘til the end of the earth. And Sherlock is going to attend five scenes without insulting Anderson. He’s a shit to deal with after Sherlock’s pointed out his mistakes to all and sundry.”

“I feel like I should make an effort on Sherlock’s behalf,” John said dryly, “so let’s agree that I bargained you down from ten, shall we?”

Finally Greg cracked a grin. “Fine. Fuck.” He ran both hands over his face. “So is it better if the date goes well or badly?”

“I have no idea.” John replied. “Let’s play it by ear.” Greg nodded, pulling the door open for both of them to re-enter.

The brothers were sitting in stony silence when they approached the table, and Greg wondered if they had exchanged so much as a single word while he and John were absent.

“Detective Inspector.” Mycroft greeted him, standing as they arrived.

“It’s Greg actually,” replied Greg. This was hardly a formal occasion, after all.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. Greg and John sat themselves down. Greg nodded at Sherlock, who completely ignored his arrival.

“So what ruse did Sherlock use to get you here today?” Mycroft asked, his tone conversational, yet clearly designed to barb at Sherlock.

“Er, none,” said Greg. “John asked me to meet him here. So here I am.”

“John?” Mycroft replied. “Interesting. I wasn’t aware he was so integral in Sherlock’s deceptions.”

“We’ll go to the bar,” John said, standing abruptly and dragging Sherlock with him. Greg watched them leave, assessing them in light of the new information about their relationship. They looked exactly the same, he thought.

“In your absence, Sherlock informed me you believe this to be a date.” Mycroft said as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Er, well not initially,” Greg said. “Although when I saw the three of you sitting waiting for me, that was the conclusion I jumped to.”

“And you chose to leave.” Mycroft summarised.

“No, I chose to clarify some things with John before joining you,” corrected Greg.

“Fair enough,” Mycroft allowed.

“What did Sherlock tell you that made you come tonight?” Greg asked, curious.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in distaste. “He told me our mother was in London and had insisted on seeing us both.”

“Does she often contact Sherlock and not you?” Greg asked.

“No,” Mycroft admitted, a rueful smile on his face “And if she did, it would be most out of character for Sherlock to go to any effort at all when it came to meeting our mother’s invitations.”

“Wow, you must have been distracted if Sherlock fooled you.” The words were out of Greg’s mouth before he could think. He winced. “Shit, sorry. I just mean that you and Sherlock usually read each other so well…”

Mycroft’s mouth quirked in that subtle way Greg had learned long ago meant he was amused by something. “Indeed, Gregory. I must admit this development with John has…distracted me.”

Greg’s eyebrows rose at this admission. Mycroft sounded blasé but if he was distracted enough not to read Sherlock correctly, his attention must have been occupied by something much more serious. “I thought the deductions happened automatically.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “What gives you that idea?”

Before Greg could answer, John and Sherlock returned bearing drinks. “I didn’t even ask what you wanted, hope this is okay,” said John, putting a bottle of merlot on the table.

“For a mediocre wine list, this was a surprisingly acceptable bottle,” added Sherlock. Greg nodded. He didn’t usually drink red but rocking the boat was not really an option tonight. It was an interesting snippet of conversation he’d just had with Mycroft – without Sherlock’s snark or the concern about the same self-styled detective, they’d talked fairly easily. He wondered what Mycroft would have had to say before Sherlock returned. Greg found himself hoping there would be an opportunity to ask him later.

As Sherlock consented to pour the drinks (after a pointed look from John – Greg made a mental note to ask John what he’d offered or threatened to make Sherlock do as he was asked without complaint), John, Greg and Mycroft talked a little awkwardly about John’s work, the latest case Sherlock had found, and awkwardly enough, Christmas.

“What do you usually do, Greg?” John asked, sipping at his wine.

Greg felt his face heat as he admitted, “Work.”

“Even when you were married?” asked John.

Before Greg could answer, Sherlock cut in impatiently, “Clearly his determination to work over the holiday season originates before his marriage, John-” but a look from John cut him off and he huffed and rolled his eyes. At least he shut up, thought Greg.

“I don’t have a lot of family,” Greg answered John’s question. “Parents are gone, no brothers or sisters. I always figured it was better for me to work, let everyone with a family enjoy it, right?” He generally hid the pain of his miserable upbringing fairly well, but two pairs of Holmes eyes examining him made Greg squirm uncomfortably. “Celia always said she didn’t mind. Turned out she spent most of that time shagging other people, so I suppose it worked out for everyone.” The self-deprecating humour fell flat. “Yeah, sorry. That wasn’t really dinner conversation, was it?”

As their meals arrived – Greg didn’t even remember what he’d ordered in the immediacy of his arrival – the conversation turned to the Holmes Christmas traditions.

“Sherlock is quite fond of Christmas, aren’t you?” said Mycroft. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the pink of his cheeks revealed the truth.

“It can be a miserable time of year.” He replied stiffly, refusing to concede even this point to his brother. The table was silent until he looked up, and Greg suspected three disbelieving looks was enough to trigger his grudging admission, “I liked to help decorate the sugar cookies when I was younger.”

John grinned, and Greg felt himself smile in response, as the affection on John’s face was evident. Glancing at Mycroft to see how he had reacted to this overt sign of John’s infatuation, Greg was surprised to see sadness flash across his features, before the impassive mask replaced it once more.  He narrowed his eyes, consciously thinking like a detective – what did that mean? It was hardly the typical response, especially when it was your brother who was the object of such obvious affection. When Mycroft sensed Greg’s gaze he turned sharply to meet Greg’s eyes. Years of interview experience allowed Greg to meet his eyes calmly, continuing to read (or try to read) Mycroft’s face. There was nothing except perhaps a hint of tightness around his mouth. Greg had the impulse to reach out to Mycroft in some way, to squeeze his hand or something. The flash of emotion he’d seen in that moment had proven that there was more to him that the dispassionate Government employee reluctantly saving his wayward younger brother. He was convinced the façade was indeed a face for something far more complex.

“Does your family have a big family do, then?” Greg asked Mycroft, lowering his voice a little as John and Sherlock had started talking about something to do with family politics.

“Every year my mother insists on our attendance for several days,” explained Mycroft.

Greg blinked. “That doesn’t answer my question.” He grinned at Mycroft’s look of exasperation tinged with admiration. “What can I say, I’ve talked to a lot of evasive people in a professional capacity.”

“We do have _that_ in common, then,” Mycroft murmured. “It is just Sherlock, my mother and father and I. We generally spend the time at the smaller country cottage, as we did as children.”

Greg didn’t answer for a moment, trying to decide which line of conversation to pursue. After an internal debate, fuelled in part by the wine, he asked, “Do you really think we don’t have much in common?”

The question was unexpected, Greg could see that from Mycroft’s carefully lifted eyebrow and the sip of wine he took, giving himself a few seconds to think.

As he considered Greg’s question, Sherlock broke into their conversation. “John and I are leaving.” He took John’s hand and attempted to drag him away. Rolling his eyes, John released his arm and turned to both Greg and Mycroft.

“Do you need a lift, Greg?” It was possibly the most unsubtle out-clause Greg had ever heard, but he appreciated the effort. Far better than just ditching him on a potentially disastrous date.

“Thanks, John, but I’m sure I can get myself home.” Greg replied. “Mycroft and I are in the middle of an interesting conversation, actually.” John stared at him for a long moment before shrugging and clapping him on the shoulder. “Okay, then. See you later.” He nodded at Mycroft then gave into Sherlock’s incessant tugging at his hand and left the restaurant.

Greg watched John and Sherlock depart then turned back to Mycroft, who had a speculative look on his face.

“I can offer you a lift if you need it,” Mycroft offered.

“Thank you,” replied Greg.

“Well that was the most unusual date I’ve had in a long time,” said Greg, pushing his empty plate slightly away from him.

“It was…memorable,” agreed Mycroft.

“That’s a great description,” Greg said. “Awkward comes to mind – but not all of it was awkward. Interesting – but not all of it was interesting. Unexpected – now there’s another good one.”

“How so?” Mycroft asked.

“The date itself was unexpected, I thought I was meeting John here for a quiet dinner out. And the company was not what I would have guessed. And on top of all that, the man himself was not what I thought he would be.”

Mycroft shifted slightly, belying his discomfort at the roundabout compliment. “And the fact your date is a man?” he asked.

Greg shrugged. “I’ve dated men before.” He changed the subject, wanting to get back to a couple of their earlier topics of conversation. “I’m kind of glad John and Sherlock are gone, to be honest. They interrupted two of our more interesting points of conversation.”

Mycroft nodded. “Indeed they did. You were going to tell me why you thought the deductive process was automatic.”

“That’s how Sherlock described it,” answered Greg immediately.

“And you assumed it was the same for us both.”

“I assumed you’d taught him, actually.”

Mycroft stared at Greg, his mouth twitching into a ghost of a smile. “I did, in fact. Impossible as it might be to imagine, Sherlock and I were very close as children. He was no less patient, however, and once he’d learned the basics he was off, using his skills to varying success, though his overall performance improved quickly.”

“You’re proud of him,” noted Greg.

“I am.” Mycroft replied. “His deductive skills match my own; however he did not have the patience to learn to control himself. As such he moves through a cacophony of information, largely unable to filter the details that are unimportant, or to restrain himself from blurting out conclusions at inopportune moments.”

“He frustrates you,” summarised Greg.

“I understand that is par for the course with siblings,” said Mycroft.

“I wouldn’t know.” Greg replied.

“My apologies. You did mention it earlier.” Mycroft said.

“So you’re just as observant as Sherlock but you control it better, is that about it?” Greg asked. This glimpse of the more personal side of Mycroft was fascinating. His own assessment of himself and his relationship with Sherlock was light years from their usual Sherlock-centric conversation.

“Approximately, yes. I am trained more fully in social cues and etiquette, and tend to read people better. He could probably learn to harness his ability,” Mycroft said slowly, fingers smoothing the edge of the tablecloth. “Would his life be easier if he restrained himself? Certainly. Would he be happier, less at odds with the world? I doubt it, though it might be hard to see. He is self-destructive by nature, and my concern would be which alternative he would chose, should his haphazard and sometimes dangerous deductions cease to be.”

Greg nodded, understanding at least a little more about the relationship between the brothers. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what, may I ask?”

“For answering me honestly,” Greg replied, looking directly at Mycroft. He allowed a smirk to cross his face as he added, “even if you did evade some of my questions.”

“Why, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft replied innocently, “I do not know to what you refer.” For the first time an actual smile, genuine and tentative, crossed Mycroft’s face, and they sat looking at each other for a few moments.  
“Should we walk somewhere?” Greg asked. “There’s a good little pub near here, we could go for a drink.”

A fleeting look of surprise at the suggestion, and the barest hint of pleasure before Mycroft nodded his head. Greg reached for his wallet, but the reproachful look from Mycroft told him the bill had been settled.

“Are you sure?” Greg asked as they left the restaurant, and Mycroft didn’t even bother to reply, which Greg took as ‘that’s too stupid to even answer’. Funnily enough, he wasn’t offended at all.

“I always thought you made the same deductions as Sherlock, you just didn’t blurt them out,” Greg said after a few moments. For some reason this was something that was sticking in his head, this idea that Mycroft hadn’t known everything about him.

“No,” Mycroft replied. He glanced at Greg, and added, “although it doesn’t take any great powers to see you’re troubled by that for some reason.”

“Can you see why?” Greg asked, impulsively. He stopped and faced Mycroft. “If you look, taking everything you know about me, can you deduce why?”

“Possibly,” Mycroft conceded, though his eyes did not leave Greg’s. “Are you asking me to?” It felt strangely intimate, giving consent to what amounted to an invasion of his privacy. Greg nodded. Mycroft shrugged and looked over Greg. Greg tried to keep his emotions from showing too much, but his poker face was rubbish, as he’d been told time and again, and he figured it wouldn’t take Mycroft long to see the truth.

“You’re sure?” Mycroft said finally.

“I assume by asking you mean, ‘I’ve figured it out and I’m not sure if I should say it’,” Greg replied.

“Just so,” Mycroft shot back.

“How about I give you the highlights and you can see how close you got?” Greg said, his heart beating faster.

“As you like,” Mycroft agreed.

“When we first met, I assumed you were like Sherlock, but more restrained. Therefore, you knew about my upbringing, but you didn’t say a word.” Greg studied Mycroft, who looked unsurprised. He went on, wondering at what point there would be a flash of surprise. “My parents died when I was young. I was raised by my great-aunt. It was a pretty rough area, and I got into quite a bit of trouble before I sorted myself out and decided to change sides.”

He stopped – the memories were not fun to recall. Perhaps another day, he thought.

“I had surmised as much,” Mycroft said softly. “Only tonight however. I have learned that it is prudent not to direct my deductive powers at those with whom I might have ongoing contact. Ongoing personal contact.” He amended. Greg found his own eyebrows lifting at the addition.

“Personal contact?” Greg asked. The flare of personal interest, if they were using that word to describe it, ignited in his belly, as it sometimes did when he was less than vigilant. This was the first time he’d had even the hint that Mycroft might be interested, this remarkable evening.

Mycroft nodded, and as Greg watched, his face relaxed into a smile, a warm, tentative affectionate smile.

“How long?” Greg whispered.

“Long enough.” Mycroft replied. “I don’t know if my brother saw it in me and believed this evening to be amusing at our expense. I don’t believe that he would be able to keep such knowledge to himself, however.”

“True,” agreed Greg.

They fell into silence as they looked at each other. Greg imagined the speculative and slightly apprehensive expression on Mycroft’s face was mirrored on his own.

“So, assuming Sherlock was ignorant of the potential for this evening, how should we break it to him?” Greg asked, stepping closer.

“Break what?” Mycroft’s question sounded innocent but the twitch at the edge of his mouth told Greg he was not as serious as he might have been. When Greg stepped in again, Mycroft held his ground, allowing their breath to mingle in the cold night air.

“This,” Greg whispered, the words pressing against Mycroft’s lips a moment before Greg’s lips chased them there. Mycroft’s mouth was soft, his breath warm against Greg’s cheek as he exhaled. A long slow moment later, Greg leaned back, eyes closed for a further beat as he revelled in the warmth flowing through his veins. When his lids finally opened, he focused on the face before him. Gently surprised was the best description Greg could come up with, his brain fuzzy with endorphins. He smiled, probably a lopsided effort, but his face was still tingling from the kiss, the amazing kiss he’d just shared with Mycroft. With _Mycroft_. The suppressed emotion and attraction he’d felt since before his divorce came spilling out, mixing with and elevating the high of this first contact. His smile was reflected in Mycroft’s face, the gentle surprise shifting into amazement and a shy acceptance that made Greg’s heart flutter.

“I don’t think we’re going to need to say a word, actually.” Greg told Mycroft. “There’s no way we’re going to be able to hide it.”

“I’m not sure I would be able to, even if I wanted to,” agreed Mycroft.

“He’s going to flip.” Greg grinned. “John’ll have a job to keep him grounded.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Greg regretted them. He saw Mycroft’s face spasm with a range of emotions, and Greg braced for Mycroft to move away. Astonishingly, he felt a hand slide along his arm, fingers interlocking with his.

“I suspect you’ve hit on the reason behind today’s charade, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was melancholy. “I reacted badly to the change in Sherlock and John’s relationship. I was concerned about how it would affect Sherlock. I did not know that John would accept him in all his guises. I made myself…inconvenient. On reflection I was most probably overly interested in their affairs.”

“Do you think they knew why you were so interested?” Greg asked carefully.

“Even if Sherlock had considered the idea I am fairly sure he would have dismissed it as too unlikely.” Mycroft admitted. “He does not subscribe to the idea that my concern is the genuine altruistic concern of a brother. He believes I only demonstrate concern when it benefits me in some way.”

“Are you sure?” Greg asked. While he could see that in Sherlock’s attitude, he wondered how accurate it was. Perhaps both brothers had been making assumptions about each other. Leaving the idea for later, he focussed on Mycroft, squeezing his fingers against the unfamiliar ones interlacing them. “I think John will be good for him. He didn’t jump into this with your brother without knowing him first. They’ll both change a little, as people do.” He smiled encouragingly. “Did you find anything that made you worried?” Greg asked.

Mycroft’s shaking head – an admission he had not – was reluctant. “I am reluctant to play, ‘what if’,” he admitted, “however several scenarios have presented themselves to me.”

Greg was already shaking his head. “You can’t predict the future – no, you can’t,” he emphasised as Mycroft gave him an incredulous look. “You can make educated guesses about some specific events, but there are too many variables here.” He deliberately softened his voice. “And you’re forgetting. They have you and me and I daresay Mrs. Hudson ready to help if they need it. But we can’t do it for them.”

“I sense a tactful admonishing, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured.

“Indeed,” Greg replied, deliberately mimicking Mycroft. “But you know I’m right. Maybe instead of worrying about him, it’s time to give yourself the opportunity to be happy.”

He felt Mycroft take a deep breath. “Alright, then.”


End file.
